


Scenes from the Tower of Samot

by 3RatMoon



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Winter in Hieron Spoilers, fraught lovers, there is a lot of alyosha and no one is surprised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3RatMoon/pseuds/3RatMoon
Summary: We knew it was coming: a drabble collector. Warnings at the beginning of each story.[EDIT: I've moved all explicit short fics to "Many Hands Reaching"]Updated 8/153. A poem in a letter (Aly/Arr)4. Arrell watches over Alyosha on one of his bad days5. Hadrian tries to pull Samot away from his work





	1. Samot/Alyosha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable truths interrupt Alyosha's visit to Samot  
> (no warnings except SADNESS)

Samot was surprised when he felt fingers carding through his hair, and he looked up from his writing, sheets and sheets of parchment crowding his desk, to see a familiar face.

“Ah, Alyosha,” he said.

The priest smiled kindly, locks of hair held in his hands. “Good evening, my Lord.”

Samot made a derisive noise, but was smiling back. “Please, Alyosha. Your formalities sound even more ridiculous when you are currently touching me without so much as asking.” The smiling and teasing came naturally to him, even as exhausted and distracted as he was.

Alyosha’s laugh was soft, and Samot could hear an echo of that same tired feeling. “That’s fair,” he answered, “I’m merely acting on a hypothesis of mine…”

Samot hummed as the Exarch resumed the movement of fingers through hair again, this time more precisely, separating a lock or two from the others. “Hmm? And what would that hypothesis be?”

“That you need some time to relax, and that this may help.”

The god could feel the distinct sensation of braiding now. With a chuckle, he finally set his pen down. “I suppose I’m willing to allow for the testing of this hypothesis,” he said.

It was largely quiet after that, the two of them occasionally trading words and laughter, but the dominant sounds reminding just the rustle of hands and cloth and hair, and the softness of Alyosha’s breath. Samot could tell when mortals who visited in dreams were particularly lucid, because their subconscious physicalities bled through, like breathing even though they did not necessarily need to. Small things like that always fascinated the Knower of Things.

Samot sighed and closed his eyes as he felt focus move from one side of his head to the other. He wasn’t about to tell the man, but Alyosha’s dream-time visits were one of the few small pleasures he allowed himself to enjoy recently. (Imagine that– the God of Knowledge and Wine, who matured from the Boy Who Apologized to the Boy-King Samot on the Fields of Celebration– falling into a workaholic pattern that more resembled his Husband’s!) The priest had crept into his life, quiet and permissive, drawing Samot’s interest in such a patient and delicate way that the god was certain he had done so before. Alyosha was well-read and curious and witty and so, so earnest– and it turns out, a flirt to boot! Samot could hardly help himself. It really was such a pity that the Exarch’s loyalties laid with Samothes.

In a moment of impulse, Samot repeated that last thought out loud. Alyosha laughed again, sweetly, fingers moving skillfully through his hair.

“I have read the old texts,” the priest replied, “I am the servant of my Lord, but I feel that He would be quite permissive if I occasionally served His Husband.”

Samot felt a sudden, deep pain in his chest. Sweet, naïve Alyosha… The Boy-King stood from his desk and turned toward him. Alyosha merely stood still, letting the half-finished braids slip from his hands.

Samot couldn’t smile. “You don’t really know that, Alyosha. He has… He has changed.”

Alyosha withdrew his hands, fiddling subconsciously at his amulet. It was, fittingly, the shape of a sun in iron, his holy symbol, tarnished undoubtedly by many of the same touches. The priest looked hesitant, then guilty, then sad.

“I know,” he said, eventually.

Samot suddenly felt very, very old. He had been bearing this weight for so long, but now it seemed to grow heavier yet. Individuality tended to do that. Individuals.

He took Alyosha’s hands into his own, removing them from the pendant. “He would _use_ you,” he said stronger, more insistent.

Alyosha was crying, now. “I know,” he said again, barely a whisper.

Samot desperately wanted to be a wolf then, just so he could feel the give and tear of something in his teeth.

This is how it always went. The pain of thousands and thousands of people was like the roar of the ocean in his ears, but the pain of one, so plain and open in front of him, was strong enough that he imagined it could destroy him.

Samot moved his hands from Alyosha’s hands to his face, and dipped his head to kiss him. Alyosha sobbed once, then kissed him back, hands gripping his shirt. Samot pulled him closer and kissed him again and again, not quite hard or sharp but insistent. He kissed Alyosha until he wasn’t crying anymore, warm and pliant in his arms.

“Samot,” Alyosha said, a confused and awed sigh, and oh, how that stoked fires in him, but Samot could feel the loosening grip of sleep in the priest. As much as Samot wanted to take this man to bed and mark him with bruises like wards, promise him something _better_ , if he could just make it _better_ , overwrite every single mistake he made that added to the Unmaking and gave this man nothing but cruel lovers and lords to go to–

Well. He couldn’t.

So instead, the Boy-King Matured held Alyosha close and pressed something into his hands. Alyosha opened them, looking down at the pendant, bronze in the shape of a wolf’s head.

“I am grateful for your company, Exarch,” Samot said, softly, “But you shouldn’t come here for a while. I need to work. Dream of your wizard. And…” He closed Alyosha’s fingers over the amulet again. “You can call for me, if you need me. I will listen.”

Alyosha looked at him, clear pale eyes, still shiny.

Samot could tell that he wouldn’t call for him.

Still, the god just leaned down and pressed his lips to the priest’s head, softly, once. “Wake up, now,” he said.

And Alyosha was gone.

Samot went back to work.


	2. Samot/Alyosha pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time Samot found Alyosha, he was in the Forge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to WRITE something, and a continuation of the first Samot/Alyosha drabble called to me.  
> (no warnings)

The next time Samot found Alyosha, he was in the Forge. They paid no attention to each other for the most part. Samot only began to be confused about the priest's place at the anvil before he saw the body by the tap, and he would not turn back to Alyosha again. Alyosha just kept hammering, and the sound of metal striking metal drowned out Samot’s quiet grief.

It would be some time before the Boy-King returned. Alyosha was not able to perceive time passing anymore. He still had his usual needs for food and rest, but he did not have a time he satisfied them; he simply picked fruit from the plants filling the once cavernous Forge whenever he felt hungry and laid down somewhere to rest when he was tired. His sleep was deep and he suspected brief. He rarely lingered on the edge of waking anymore, the call of the Work too strong to stave off.

The first time Alyosha dreamt in the Forge was the next time he saw Samot.

The Boy-King glanced around, startled. “I did not command to go here,” he said quietly, mystified. 

His eyes finally fell where Alyosha was working (even in his dreams we was working, now), and he strode to the anvil, watching sharply.

“Did you call me here?” he asked.

Alyosha’s thoughts were sluggish against the insistence of the Work, but Samot was patient. “I don’t know,” he finally answered.

“I would hear your prayers, but mortals shouldn’t be able to summon me like that,” the god said, approaching the anvil, “Though, it seems something has happened to you. What are you doing?”

Alyosha frowned, the rhythm of his hammering faltering for a moment as he tried to remember/comprehend/explain what exactly this Work in fact Was. “Something important,” he eventually settled on, though it felt unsatisfactory coming from his lips.

Samot was quiet, calculating. He glanced around the room. “Did you make all of this?” Meaning the veritable jungle of life surrounding them, Alyosha assumed.

“I think so,” he replied.

There was just the sound of metal for a few moments. Alyosha didn’t look up from his Work, but he felt Samot move around him, watching. He felt Samot's hand as well, when it reached up to brush back some of the hair that had escaped his braid. “I do remember you, Alyosha,” the god said to him, quiet but still able to be heard, “I told you truthfully that I would answer if you prayed to me, even though I knew you wouldn't. Even in danger.” The last of it sounded sad. When was the last time they had seen each other? How long had it been?

“I would be no better than him if I were to rush in to protect you when you did not want to be protected,” he sighed, and Alyosha finally started to feel something beyond the haze of his Work, stomach clenching.

“I'm sorry,” he said, not sure what it was exactly he meant by it.

Luckily, this was a dream place, and Samot knew mortals well, so he understood. “We always do what we think is right in the moment. We are alike in that way.” Alyosha didn’t know if Samot was referring to the two of them specifically, or gods and mortals as a whole. He realized that the god’s hands hadn’t left his hair since that first touch, deftly unknotting tangles and shepherding flyaways before returning it to a neat plait at his back. Alyosha suddenly remembered doing the same for him– not just that, he remembered  _ everything _ , what had happened, to  _ whom _ it had happened, and he put a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound that may have accompanied the tears.

Samot shushed him, his hand smoothing Alyosha’s hair on top of his head. Alyosha let out a shuddering breath and leaned back against the solid warmth he perceived of Samot.

Samot, the  _ God _ , 

The Husband of  _ his _ God, 

His God who was…

Dead. 

Dead before he had ever met Him, probably.

Alyosha realized he had remembered all of this more than once before, before the call of the Work pulled him back. Samot was holding the curtain open, in a way, but once he left, it would fall closed and he would probably forget again.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know,” Samot replied, holding the priest against him, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Please find me here, if you can.” Alyosha turned his head into the god’s arm. It hurt to admit that he was scared. “Don’t leave me here.”

Samot’s grip tightened around Alyosha, just a little. “I will find a way to release you,” he promised, softly.

But of course, now, the Exarch could feel the Call beyond his dream, muting his thoughts. He wanted to hold on tighter, even as his hands on Samot’s arm fell slack.

“We both have Work to do,” he said, and Samot sighed.

“So we do. Take care… when you can.”

“Of course.”

Alyosha woke in a bed of morning glory. He got up and returned to the anvil the same as ever, but he noticed as he worked that his hair was out of his face, tied back out of the way by a firm and delicate hand.


	3. Alyosha/Arrell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem in a letter (cw existential topics)

Even if we die, he writes, even if the world dies,

We will have always known each other

We will have always watched the stars in the skies

And in each other's eyes

We will have always learned the taste of our lips

We will have always laid together in those grasses

Tangled ourselves in each other

Tasted berries and stars

 

Even with no books or stories

Or dents in the grass

Or berries missing from the brambles

We will have always been here

We will have always been

I will have always known

You


	4. Alyosha/Arrell 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrell watches over Alyosha on one of his bad days

"What is it, Pupil? Did you need something?"

Alyosha had been watching the wizard writing for close to an hour, it seemed like. It was something peaceful and grounding for the priest as pain ebbed and flowed through him. Only his Tutor’s voice, sharp at first but then softer, remembering, pulled him back from the half-waking haze he had settled into.

Alyosha couldn’t help but smile, which made Arrell’s frown deepen.

"What?" the elf asked again, irritated but keeping his voice lowered.

"I told you before, I don't need anything from you, per se. I've been able to manage on my own before." 

Arrell raised a skeptical eyebrow, which mostly made Alyosha chuckle. "Truly! But I am happy to not have to manage on my own," said the priest. 

He looked at his Tutor, then, in the way he often did when he tried, like casting a spell perhaps, to make the other man understand what he meant. "That’s what I was thinking about. That I'm glad to have you here."

Arrell was quiet, his look wary. But then he clicked his tongue in irritation and turned back to his work. "You should try to get some sleep, if you can," he said, simply.

Alyosha smiled, turning onto his back carefully. "As long as you're still here when I wake," he said, off-hand but still hopeful.

There was a long pause, unbroken by the shift of clothes or pen on paper. But then, Arrell replied, quiet, even a bit concerned. "Of course," he said, and if he sounded a bit guilty, Alyosha decided not to notice.

"Of course."


	5. Hadrian/Samot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadrian tries to pull Samot away from his work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the prompt "What if Hadrian tried to seduce Samot" which is delightful

Hadrian went to Ephrim for advice, of which the Prince had much. Hadrian would even venture to say he had  _ too _ much, especially on the particular subject, but he trusted Ephrim, so he endured the poking and prompting and styling. Surprisingly, he didn’t end up in something outlandish and minimally covering. Instead, he wore mostly his own clothes, though the trousers were a pair he thought too small, and his shirt was halfway unlaced. The only true additions were gold cuffs for his ears (pierced once, but long since healed over) and a white cloak with fur trim, clasped with a gold chain.

Hadrian laughed a little. The cloak, probably purposefully, bore a resemblance to the cloak Samot gave him, once.

“See, I would have thought you would suggest I go see him in just this,” he said.

Ephrim scoffed. “You would have looked amazing, but this is about enhancing your natural look, not being blatant.”

So, thusly Hadrian found himself approaching Samot at his desk. The god was the same as he had been, bent over sheafs of paper, reading notes and making more, always trying to find the word that would fix the world. Hadrian stepped quietly, reaching out for the empty glass sitting to the side, untended. Samot didn’t seem to notice until he had replaced it and filled the new cup with wine from the bottle in his hands.

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” said the god in a kind of distracted way. He reached out for the stem of the glass without even a glance at Hadrian. He looked so tired.

When Samot took a sip, he stilled, his focus leaving his work at last. “This one is unfamiliar to me,” he said, holding the glass up to examine its contents.

“It’s, uh, from Velas,” Hadrian replied, the year and variety he was told fleeing his mind along with the rest of the script Ephrim practiced with him.

“Velas,” Samot echoed. “Hm, whites would be popular there, with all the fish…”

“Um, yeah.” Hadrian stood and sweat as Samot took a careful second taste, then a third. He tried to think of something to say, anything.

Eventually, Samot put the glass back down on the desk. “Thank you for sharing something of your home with me, Hadrian,” he said, turning to face the other man at last. His eyes lit up as he caught sight of him. “Ah, and you look lovely as well. This isn’t all for me, is it?”

Hadrian’s mind went totally blank at that, his only response to gape like something caught and displayed at the old marina. Samot chuckled, watching him flounder.

“Oh my,” he said. “I was jesting, but I suppose if the shoe fits…”

“I’ve just been worried,” Hadrian blurted, all previous planning abandoned. “Every time I’ve seen you, you’ve been working, and you seem so tired, and, and—”

Samot silenced him with a finger on his lips. The god’s look was playful, but there was something soft and vulnerable underneath it.

“You are right, Hadrian,” he said in that soft, soft voice. “Perhaps I do need to take a moment to rest. And, it seems you may have some suggestion on how to spend that time…”

Samot added the last part with a grin that was positively wolfish, and Hadrian felt his whole body go tingly and warm.

“Yes, my lord."


End file.
